


Some Heads Are Gonna Roll

by valenstyne



Category: Death Note
Genre: Beginning of a Beautiful Friendship, Gen, How Mello Met The Mob, deliberately vague Mafia shenanigans, technically the violence is offscreen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-28
Updated: 2016-11-28
Packaged: 2018-09-02 18:43:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8679091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valenstyne/pseuds/valenstyne
Summary: Using your head can be vital to making a good first impression.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Written because while fics about Mello sleeping his way into the Mafia are nice, [canon provides an alternate explanation](https://i.imgur.com/Q3zGKjr.jpg). (Bit of a spoiler for the fic so maybe read it first and then look at the picture, but really it's up to you.) Also, I am sorry about the title, kind of.

The dive bar is filling up slowly as the workday ends, customers filtering in and going straight up to the bar without so much as a glance towards the back of the room. That suits the two men in the corner booth just fine.

“He’s not coming,” Jack says, drumming his fingers impatiently on the table.

“Shut up,” Rod says. He sips his whiskey, keeping his eyes fixed on the door. “The guy said he’d be here, he’ll be here.”

Jack sighs in annoyance, slouching in the booth. He’s barely touched his own drink, the highball glass sweating onto the tabletop as the ice melts. “This is too weird. I think it’s a setup. How do you know this motherfucker’s not a cop?”

“He’s not a cop. I can tell, okay?” And that’s mostly true. Rod’s been around long enough that he’s gotten pretty wise to undercover operations, and this doesn’t feel like one. The voice on the phone sounded young, for one thing, and the LAPD wouldn’t send some rookie to infiltrate even a modest criminal enterprise like Rod’s crew. He’s fairly confident they’re not even on the LAPD’s radar at the moment, what with Kira taking out most of the big fish and the cops having to deal with the carnage from the resulting power struggles. None of that is really a guarantee Rod’s contact isn’t, say, a deceptively youthful FBI agent, but those are goddamn long odds and a gamble Rod is willing to take.

Jack, of course, is not satisfied. “Yeah, well, what if he’s one of Zarelli’s men? Maybe he’s decided to take us out.”

The mention of Zarelli makes Rod’s teeth grind. Enrico Zarelli is the last major player in LA who Kira hasn’t killed, probably because in twenty-plus years of heading up one of the most powerful Mob families in the state the son of a bitch has never had so much as a speeding ticket. Not to mention he’s a pillar of the community, a retired district attorney who spent his career conducting show trials that firmly established him in the public eye as an anti-Mafia crusader and the scourge of organized crime in California. Which was true, as long as it was organized crime he wasn’t personally involved in. He’s picked up several highly lucrative operations since Kira started wiping out the competition, including some business connections Rod’s had his eye on for years but didn’t have the manpower to make a bid for. Rod made an attempt at negotiating for a share a few months ago and got nothing but barely-concealed contempt and a warning not to interfere with Zarelli’s enterprise if he valued his kneecaps.

“Zarelli wouldn’t have us whacked in a bar at fucking happy hour,” Rod says, not adding that Zarelli has probably forgotten they even exist. “He’s not stupid. He’s an asshole, but he’s not stupid.”

“I still think this is weird,” Jack says, shaking his head. “How are we supposed to recognize this guy, anyway?”

Not for the first time, Rod regrets choosing Jack to accompany him rather than someone who doesn’t ask so many goddamn questions. Annoying as Jack is, though, he’s been one of Rod’s men for a long time, and Rod trusts his judgement more than anyone else’s. That isn't saying much, but this is a situation requiring brains, not brawn, and Jack is the only one of Rod's crew with more of the first than the second. Although that’s still not saying much.

“He said he’ll know us.” And yeah, it makes Rod uneasy that his mysterious contact has apparently been spying on his crew for a while, but there’s nothing he can do about it except try to get the guy on his side—or, if Jack’s pessimism turns out to be justified after all, introduce the stranger to the business end of a .357 Magnum. Rod’s hoping for the first outcome, packing for the second.

"Fucking fantastic," Jack mutters, crossing his arms over his chest. "I like this more and more."

Rod's about to tell him to shut up again when the door opens and a skinny blond girl carrying a backpack enters. She's a stark contrast to the mostly middle-aged crowd, obviously nowhere near old enough to drink and maybe not even to vote. Lucky for her this place doesn't card at the door. A couple of drunk men wolf-whistle. She ignores them, looks quickly around the room and then starts directly towards the corner booth. Rod elbows Jack in the ribs. "Heads up." 

"She's too young for you," Jack says, watching the blond dodge someone's grasping hand.

"Fuck you," Rod says without real anger. 

The blond reaches their table and stops, staring down at them. Her eyes are very dark, jet-black and cold. "Are you Rod Ross?" 

The voice is startlingly deep. Rod does a split-second reevaluation of the kid—narrow hips, no breasts—and realizes that despite the long hair and pretty face, he's looking at a boy. Huh. "Yeah, I'm Rod Ross. Who's asking?"

The kid slides into the booth, sets the backpack beside him and leans on the table. Up close he looks even younger. The sleeves of his faded denim jacket are a little too short, revealing bony white wrists Rod could probably wrap his fingers all the way around. His hair gleams in the dim fluorescent light, and for a second Rod thinks vaguely of Christmas-card angels, haloed blond cherubs with blissful smiles and eyes that don’t look like bullet holes. "I'm the one who called you," the kid says. "I have a business proposition."

Jack opens his mouth, but Rod holds up a hand to silence him. “What kind of business proposition?” 

“I’m going to catch Kira,” the kid says, eyes fixed unblinking on Rod. “I want you and your men to work for me.”

Rod chokes on his whiskey.

“For fuck’s sake,” Jack snaps. “This is ridiculous, we're not fucking babysit—” Rod kicks him in the shin under the table. “Ow!” He falls silent, rubbing his leg and glaring.

“Look, kid," Rod says, choosing his words carefully, "you've done pretty good so far. I know you've been watching us for a while." Jack squawks angrily at that; Rod and the kid both ignore him. "But Kira isn’t my top priority right now, and I’ve got no reason to believe you can catch him anyway, so I’m gonna need a hell of a lot more to convince me your…business proposition…is worth my time.” 

The kid's smile is shark-like. Silently, he pushes the backpack across the table and sits back.

Rod takes the pack and unzips it somewhat gingerly. It's surprisingly heavy, but fortunately not ticking or anything. The only thing inside is a round shape wrapped in a black garbage bag. Jack peers curiously over his shoulder as Rod finds a loose corner and peels back the plastic.

Enrico Zarelli's severed head looks up at them. 

"Jesus!" Rod yelps. Jack gags and claps his hand over his mouth. The smell of fresh blood wafts from the bag, plain even through the haze of smoke filling the bar, as Rod stares at the head in fascinated horror. Alive, Zarelli was a handsome man, with artfully graying dark hair always styled to frame a face that was tan and clean-shaven and perpetually smirking. Now his mouth is slack, his skin is pallid, and his five-hundred-dollar haircut is matted with blood and brains where the bullet that entered through the neat little hole between his glazed eyes blew out the back of his skull. Shot at point-blank range, if Rod's any judge. He wonders how the kid got close enough to do that. 

"Well?" The kid sounds amused. Rod forces himself to look away from Zarelli's dead eyes and into the kid's icy ones. He's not sure which is worse. "Are you convinced?"

Rod pulls the plastic bag back over Zarelli’s face, his fingers trembling a little as he zips up the backpack. “Yeah. Yeah, guess I am. Jack, what do you think?” He doesn’t really care what Jack thinks. He just wants the kid to stop _looking_ at him that way, his eyes like a knife held to Rod’s throat.

“Yeah,” Jack mumbles, his eyes still fixed on the pack. His face is nearly as ashen as Zarelli’s. “I—I’m going to—” He stands up shakily. “I’ll be right back.” 

The kid watches Jack stagger towards the men’s room. “I thought you guys would have stronger stomachs,” he says.

“Yeah, well, he’s a fucking pansy,” Rod mutters, draining the last of his whiskey and swapping his empty glass for Jack’s full one. Truthfully, he’s pretty rattled too, although not exactly for the obvious reason. God knows he’s seen his fair share of bodies over the years, some of them in pieces just like Zarelli. Hell, he’s cut up one or two himself. 

But this is some next-level shit. Even the scariest professional hitmen Rod’s known, the guys who killed for business and for pleasure, would never have done something as balls-out crazy as walk into a bar with the head of LA’s most powerful Mob boss and drop it on the table like a fucking business card just to prove a point. Not to mention all of them were over thirty and had been in the game for years. This kid, whoever or whatever else he is, is dangerous.

“Kira _will_ notice you eventually,” the kid says, mercifully redirecting Rod’s train of thought. “Especially if you take over Zarelli’s operation.”

“I know.” The problem with being on top is that you’re a much clearer target than anyone underneath. Rod knows this all too well, and it’s made him almost grateful for his relatively small-time status as Kira’s body count rises. Zarelli might have been able to hide behind his squeaky-clean image, but Rod’s got a record even under his current alias. Moving into Zarelli’s territory now would be one hell of a risk. The question is if it’s a risk worth taking.

The kid seems to follow what Rod’s thinking. “But if you don’t take over from Zarelli, someone else will. You’ll be safe from Kira, at least for a while, but you’ll never be more than a second-rate thug who passed up a chance at real glory. How long will your men stay loyal to you once they know that?” 

Rod doesn’t bother arguing. The kid’s right, and obviously knows it. Besides, Rod’s not dumb enough to start shit with someone who’s comfortable carrying a goddamn severed head around in public. “I said, I’m convinced. You got yourself a deal. Hey, what’s your name, anyway?”

The kid cocks his head to one side, eyes narrowed to glittering slivers under a screen of pale lashes as he gives Rod a slow, lingering once-over. There’s something bizarrely seductive about it, and Rod suddenly thinks he can imagine how Zarelli got a bullet in the brain. “Mello,” the kid says finally.

“Mello,” Rod repeats. “Nice to meet you. You want a drink? Toast to our new partnership?”

“No,” Mello says, but he looks pleased. He stands up from the table, gestures at the backpack. “You can look after our friend there. I’ll be in touch.” 

Before Rod can reply Mello is gone, his small figure cutting easily through the crowd. Rod watches him leave, feeling a little bit like he’s just been through an earthquake. Not the kind of minor quake he’s gotten used to, living in LA, but a big one like the one that trashed San Francisco a hundred years ago and left a few thousand people dead.

He wonders whose head will be in the bag next time. Kira’s? His own?

Jack creeps back to the table, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. He very carefully doesn’t look at the backpack as he sits down. “What’d I miss?” he asks hoarsely, reaching for his glass and frowning in confusion when he realizes it’s empty.

“We’re moving uptown,” Rod says. “Go buy us another round and I’ll tell you what we’re gonna do about Zarelli’s boys.”

“This is crazy,” Jack says, shaking his head. “Absolutely fucking crazy.”

That’s not wrong, but Rod’s not gonna give Jack the satisfaction of saying so. Instead he grins, baring his teeth in his best imitation of Mello’s shark-smile. The way Jack wilts at the sight is deeply gratifying. “If you don’t wanna end up like Zarelli, _shut the fuck up_ and get me another drink.”


End file.
